Bred Black Over the Kitchen Sink

Thanks to everyone who read, voted or commented on my first submission. I'm still working on the next chapter of my adventures, but in the meantime here's the first letter in a series I call Asian Girl's First Black Cock where other Queen write in an let us know about their own sexual adventures.

Dear Asian Queen Network,

You asked for our first time experiences with black men. This is mine.

This was twenty years ago, and I was twenty-two years old. I'd finished my bachelor's degree at Beijing University and had just flown into the UK to do a master's degree in Nottingham. Instead of going into a dorm, I had the opportunity to stay with a host family. That would give me a chance to experience real British culture and also get authentic language practice. I wasn't a party girl, so the thought of staying with a whole bunch of rowdy students didn't appeal to me.

About a week before I left China, I got a call from Yvonne, the woman who arranged the homestay families and dealt with any issues. She said there was a host family for me, but she was also kind of dancing around something. She dropped into the conversation, along with a whole bunch of other information, the fact that the family was black. Then she started to go on about how they had two youngish kids, seven and four. Eventually, she came round to asking if I thought they would be okay, while making it clear that it was okay to say 'no.' Some Chinese have pretty backwards ideas about race, and I think she was giving me a way out without trying to appear to give me a way out without either her or me appearing politically incorrect.

Anyway, I said yes, and I was happy that I did, because when I got there, they were so welcoming to me. The house was just close to the university and I had, not an enormous room, but definitely a much bigger room than some of the other students in the host programme.

I was a bit intimidated by Rita at first; she was a huge, and I mean huge, black lady. She must have weighed more than 120kg, and she had this loud laugh. Dan, on the other hand, was tall. He was an electrician and, while he wasn't muscled and had something of a dad bod, he was still in reasonably good shape. He didn't share Rita's laugh, but he had a habit of making her laugh with just a silly word or two.

I was also quite shocked by how physical they were together. She'd be cooking, and he'd come home and kiss her on the back of the neck. Or he'd be going from the fridge to the lounge and a hand would just caress over her buttocks as he passed. It wasn't anything too saucy, but compared with growing up with my very traditional parents, it was kind of weird seeing a relationship where touch played a major part.

Being a good girl, I never went out late at night. I was always in bed early, and my bedroom was well away from the master bedroom. As the term progressed and I started to get assignments though, things became a bit tougher. One night, I was up past midnight trying to get a first draft of an essay done. Just before settling down to sleep, I went to use the toilet and heard the distinct sounds of sex coming from their bedroom. They weren't loud exactly, but she was definitely vocalising a lot of pleasure. I assumed, given her cries, that they were nearing the end. As I sat on the loo, I waited for them to finish. There were periods of relative silence, but every time I thought they were done, her moans would start up again. This seemed to go on forever. When I left my room, it had been 12:04. When Rita had her final, wall-shaking orgasm it was 12:43.

For the last twenty minutes of that, I had my hand hovering over my pussy. Wanting to masturbate, but feeling it was wrong.

I was not a virgin. I'd had sex three times with my boyfriend back in China, each time at a tiny dirty little hotel that charged by the hour. Altogether all three sessions had lasted probably half as long as what I'd just heard through the walls.

I went to bed, but didn't get much sleep.

From then on, I reacted differently to the little love touches Dan and Rita gave each other during the day. I couldn't help but think of that long, long sex session every time they brushed against each other. And I found myself imagining what it would be like.

All of which meant I was imagining being Rita, of course. I couldn't get my head around her body; it was just so different from my own, so soon I stopped trying to imagine what it must be like for them to make love and instead started imagining what it would be like for Dan to make love to me.

It was a stupid thing to fixate on because, inevitably, I ended up falling just that little bit in love with him.

I was self-aware enough to know what was happening and had the presence of mind to try to do something about it. I accepted a date with a white guy from my class, Jack. He was pleasant enough, but it only made things worse. After our first date, and a chaste kiss goodnight, I tried imagining what it would be like to sleep with him. I couldn't. I wasn't able to conjure up any kind of nice image until my mind substituted Dan. Jack sent me a few text messages, which I didn't reply to. We had a rather awkward conversation after a lecture where I neither committed to nor refused another date, which was followed by more text messages, which I also ignored. Eventually, he got the message and backed off.

Now, when I masturbated at night, my fantasies went straight to Dan, with only a little residual guilt. I'd climb into bed and then imagine the door opening. He wouldn't say anything, he'd just climb into bed as if we were already lovers. I'd open my legs slightly, and slip a finger there as I dreamed about what his kisses would be like. What his cock would get like.

After long nights pleasuring myself, I naturally became worried about letting my feelings show in the mornings. I'm an open book, or so I'm told. I thought if Rita found out my feelings about Dan, there would be trouble somehow. I became even more withdrawn than I was naturally, scurrying into my room whenever I came back from class and eating meals in silence. I was aware I was being impolite, but felt that the alternative might be worse.

So there was a lot of internal build-up before what happened happened. From my perspective, there hadn't been any kind of external build-up, though.

It was a normal Thursday morning.

Rita had bustled off to her shift. As an electrician, Dan's work was less scheduled, and he was still lounging around the house at nine thirty. I made it a habit to help out where I could, so I'd started doing the washing up without having been asked. I'd just run the hot water and mixed in the Fairy Liquid when Dan got up to get another cup. He took a couple of teaspoons of instant from the jar, added three sugars and then brushed past me to get the milk from the fridge.

And as he 'brushed' his left hand came into contact with my behind. It was very fractionally above perfectly innocent. His hand lingered just fractionally longer than it should have done. It pushed against me just fractionally harder than could be explained by the relative positions of the sink and kitchen table hemming us in. I found myself looking up towards him and he ignored me, rooting around the fridge for an unopened bottle of milk.

When he passed me again, I stuck my arse out just a little bit more. This time when he passed me, he didn't slow, but nevertheless, his hand lingered, an open palm held flat against my rear. It was clearly aloving touch, the sort he'd just naturally give Rita if she were here at the sink instead of me.

I felt my heart beating fast. I suddenly knew that what I dreamed of for so long could happen. I could make it happen.

It seemed to take forever for Dan to fill the rest of his cup with milk. When he did, I knew he'd need to go past me again to put the milk back in the fridge.

No sooner did I hear the lid go back on the bottle than I hiked up my skirt and pulled my knickers down to my thighs. I daren't look up, but a second later, two firm hands came to rest on each of my arse cheeks.

And they stayed there. They didn't move, but I found myself wiggling my bottom underneath them.

"You want this?" he asked.

I nodded mutely.

"You sure?" he prompted again.

"I'm... sure," I answered, barely able to speak.

I was terrified, frozen in place, but a moment later I felt his hand move to my pussy, confirming that my body did, indeed, want this, and then I heard him unzip.

He pushed inside me. A dominant older black man putting his dick inside a scared little Chinese girl. I felt my lips part, welcoming him. He pushed again and just kept pushing. He seemed to fill up my whole being in a way I'd never experienced before.

What remains deeply erotic for me was how simple the experience was. Once he was inside me, he just put his two big hands on my waist, held me in place and started to thrust. He choose a tempo and stuck to it. He didn't say anything. He didn't vary the position. He could have grabbed my breasts, or fondled my arse or kissed the back of my neck. He did none of those things.

Instead, he simply took me, a man taking a woman.

It wasn't so hard so much as it was insistent. My pussy soon adapted to his rhythm, each long stroke hitting it deeply at its core. It started to contract and squeeze around his shaft.

This series is calledAsian Girl's First Big Black Cock. It's ironic because I never actually saw his cock. I don't know how big it was, only how it felt, and it felt very different from my previous lover, filling my sex and making my clit throb and ache as I welcomed its intrusion into me.

If he didn't move, neither did I. My hands rested on the side of the sink, my face just above the washing-up bowl. I was balanced well enough that I could close my eyes, and the steam rising from the water became part of the experience. I began to sweat from the heat and the exertion.

For the next five minutes, the only change was that as he thrust in, I found my hips thrusting back in kind. As much as his cock was driving me wild, I found myself focusing on his hands. Safe hands but also controlling. He wasn't going to let go until he had finished with me. I didn't want him to. I wanted to be his.

"Oh, baba!" I found myself moaning the Chinese word for father -- a man to look after me. If he understood, he didn't respond, except for a slight squeeze of my hip. His next thrust set off my pussy muscles again, not quite a mini-orgasm but a noticeable increase in pleasure.

From that moment on, I was lost in ecstasy. His smell was sex. His touch was sex. His breath, heavy behind me, was sex. I wanted nothing but the man inside me. We were in perfect heavenly unity.

For all it seemed to go on without end, I was finally knocked out of my reverie by his quickening thrusts. His hands at my waist went from being safe and comforting to holding me like a vice. The rhythm became synopated and his breath became laboured. Suddenly, the reality of what I was doing hit me.

"No..." I cried, except it came out as a whisper. "Don't, don't..."

It was too little too late, a second later I felt his cock thrust deeper into my pussy than anything ever had before. Deeper than I knew I went. One hand moved up and grabbed my tiny breast, squeezing it tight, and I moaned in pain.

And his cock stayed and stayed in my cunt. He relaxed his hold on me just a little for just a second, and then he pushed into me again. And again, his cock held deep as he finished with me.

I came.

I came so hard I would have fallen, my knees buckling, except he held me firm through my orgasm.

It completed me.

They said I became a woman when my pathetic little boyfriend stuck his pee-pee in me for thirty seconds and then filled a condom. They were embarrassingly wrong.

I became a real woman when I learned what it feels like to be a real woman. When I learned what it means for a man to take and a woman to give.

Ironically, I learned how to be a woman at the kitchen sink, but I try to gloss over that part as much as possible.

Then suddenly, man and women were apart again. I missed his hands on me just as much as I missed him not being inside me. I was left standing there, weak in the legs and breathing hard, my knickers around my ankles.

I didn't turn around. I heard the chair scrape and then him take the first sip of the coffee he had been making before this all happened.

"You'd better get cleaned up," he said eventually. He was right, my hand reached down to my thighs, and I could feel his cum-leaking out of me.

I was numb with the thought that my host father had just put a baby inside me. And there was nomight, he had made me pregnant. I was sure. For a moment, I find myself blaming him for what he should have done. He should have worn a condom. He should have pulled out.

He shouldn't have done anything at all. He shouldn't have touched me.

But what about me? I should have asked him to wear a condom. Insisted. I should have told him to pull out.

I let him breed me.

I'm left stranded between the moment and its consequences.

I try pulling my knickers up, but realise my thighs are too dirty. I reach down to the drawer and pull out some kitchen towel. It's hard against my skin, and nor does it work against the cum already matted into pussy. I do a botched job and then half-pull my knickers up so I can waddle to the downstairs loo.

I sit there for a while. My hand is on my pussy. Even minutes later, I can feel that it's still dilated from the good fucking it just got.

I'm used to condoms, neat little packets easily binned. This is messy. Every time I dab with paper, there is still semen inside me. It seems like I'll never be clean inside. A little gets stuck to my finger, and I bring my hand up to look at it.

Dirty. Dirty. Dirty.

That was amazing.

I'm a cheap girl who let herself be used.

It is amazing.

Even now, his seed is fusing with my egg, burrowing into my uterus.

He took me.

I'm going to be a mother. My belly is going to grow big and my breasts are going to fill with milk. I'm going to go into labour. I'm going to have to push a living child out of myself. It is going to be agony.

He already has two children. He has a wife. He won't leave her. I know that. I won't ask.

I put my hand to my stomach. I've always wondered what it would feel like to have a life growing inside you. But only in the abstract, something I knew was coming in a far-away part of my existence that had no bearing on who I was now.

It's there now.

Three months. Six months. Nine months.

Soon.

My phone goes. It's Lina, my study buddy, wondering where I am. I realise my seminar is due to start in seven minutes. I pick myself up, have one last go at cleaning my nether regions and then straighten out my clothes. I arrive on campus twenty minutes late and mumble an apology. I overslept, which is not terribly believable for me but is the best I can do.

I cry off studying in the library afterwards. Instead, I go into the city centre and hover outside the chemist's. I know I need to deal with this, but... I just don't. Somehow, I just can't. I do make one decision. I sit on a park bench and call the university admin in charge of the host family programme. I tell her I want to move. She asks why, and I can't really tell her, floundering around for a thousand excuses that don't quite make sense. In the end, she just flat-out asks me, "Did something happen?" and my 'no' is not at all convincing. She says she's got another potential family, but they're fifty-minutes walk away from the university. I agree immediately.

I make an arrangement with Rita to go back and get my stuff, and when I arrive, it's just her there. She's upset because my leaving suddenly reflects badly on them. She doesn't say as much, but I think she thinks there is something racist going on. Luckily, I don't have much stuff and I'm tidy by nature, so I can grab everything I need quickly and get out.

My new host is a middle-aged woman who is fussy about tidiness and keeps three cats. Again, I'm a good girl, so there's no friction, but neither do I feel any warmth in the home.

After a week, I go and buy two pregnancy tests, different brands, throwing them into my basket casually as I walk round the local Tesco supermarket.

At my new home, I sit on the loo, try to get the stick in the right position and wee on it. I place it on the sink and stare at it. A single line appears on the strip of paper. I wait. The line darkens but remains alone.

It's negative.

I can't believe it. There is no way it can be negative. I know I'm having his baby. I rip the other one open and repeat the test.

That one is negative as well.

Somehow, I've dodged a bullet.

It's drilled into us that if you act badly, if you act sluttily, even once, you will end up as a single mother. It's what you deserve.

It's what I deserve.

It's what I want.

His baby should be growing inside me.

Weirdly, while I've relived that moment a thousand times since it happened, I've not thought of actually doing it again with Dan. That changes now. Suddenly, I need him again.

I send him a text message. Can we meet?

He replies, that's not a good idea.

That annoys me, it's a great idea. I want you inside me

He doesn't reply. Please! I send after half-an-hour. Still nothing. I break down in tears in my room. I send a hundred more texts. He sends none.

The next day my period comes. My flow seems unnaturally heavy. It's like my body betraying me.

Pregnancy starts to feature in my sexual fantasies. That moment when he fills my womb up with life. I imagine him fucking me when I'm seven months gone. I imagine him holding our child, his two conveniently forgotten.

A week later, I show up at his house, conservatively dressed but not wearing any knickers. I know he's in and she's out. His van is parked there. I knock on the door, and he doesn't answer. I hop over the little fence to the back garden and bang on the kitchen door. I see him coming through the glass. He opens it and pulls me inside.

"What are you doing here, you crazy bitch?" he asks.

I lean over the kitchen sink and pull up my skirt.

I wait for what seems like an age.

Finally, I feel his cock push inside me.

There's no moment of victory. Almost immediately, I understand the difference. Last time, he had been deliberate. This time he's angry. The pace is faster, so much so that there's now an audible slap as his flesh hits mine. He pushes deeper each thrust, and it hurts. I vocalise that. I'm not sure if he hears moans or screams.

This was what I wanted, but I'm also wondering if I should stop it. If I can stop it.

Then his hands go to my neck. He's not strangling me, but it is a firm grip. Enough to persuade me that there's no stopping this.

If I was taken before, this time I am used.

"You fucking slut," he says as he pushes my head further down onto the sink.

That word can be liberating. This time it's shameful. I don't reply. I don't know whether to agree with him or deny it. He's right, though. How did I suddenly get to be like this? Why am I here? Can I ever be that good girl again?

"God, your cunt is so tight. Even if you're a crazy Chinese whore." I realize that he's not even talking to me anymore. He's just talking about me.

It hits me like a train that I've missed out on those loving touches right at the start. I wanted him to brush against me first. To toy with me, play with me, see if I'm interested. Alas, I've given myself so cheaply that he doesn't need to do any of that. Instead, he's brutal. I don't acknowledge his insult. With the roughness and the dirty talk, there's no way I'm finding my floating place this time. Instead, I endure the pounding. I focus on getting to the end of this.

But my body betrays me. Suddenly, without warning, I find my pussy slamming down around his dick and whole body shuddering. I don't convulse or feel weak at the knees like last time, and there is little pleasure. It's a physical reaction, the same as a sneeze.

He sees it happen. "You like that. Cum for daddy," he says. I'm not sure if he's taunting me, there does seem to be a sneer in his voice. I'm still shaken by my orgasm, but one word stands out there, reminding me why I'm here.

"Daddy. Baby." I moan, having difficulty formulating even simple words in a foreign language.

"Yes, baby," he replies, missing the point. "Daddy is going to make you cum again and again."

"No," I tell him. "Baby. I... want... baby."

"You want a baby?" he replies in surprise.

I do. However dispassionate this encounter is turning out, I've been fixated on that one thing for the past month.

"I want your baby," I repeat. "Please, daddy." I wonder why I mean it, but I do.

"Oh, you do, do you?" Again, there's scorn, but he doesn't stop. If anything he gets rougher. There's actually pressure at my neck now. I try and answer with a 'yes' and find myself struggling for breath.

"You really want to be my babymummy, even though I'm married?" he asks.

"Mmmm, mmmm, mmmm," is all I can say.

Then he stops. He pulls out of me. I start to turn, to protest, and he interrupts. "Down on your knees."

I obey. My forehead is now level with the kitchen counter.

"No, like a dog," he says. I have backup, so I can bend over. "Head down, arse up," he orders. Again, I follow his instructions, resting my head on my crossed arms. I can hear the sounds of him jerking his cock behind me.

"You want to be a mummy?" he asks again.

"Yes!" I moan. "Please."

"Beg me," he orders.

"Please make me a mummy," I repeat. "Put a baby inside me. I need it."

"Okay," he says coldly. I feel his cock once more enter me, but once it's in, it remains motionless. "You're going to count to five, and when you hit five, you're going to become a mother, right?"

"Yes, yes," I beg.

"One," he says, thrusting into me and then holding it. "Now, you count."

"One," I repeat and he moved back and thrusts again. "Two."

"You going to be a good mummy?" he asks as I say, "Three."

"Yes, yes," I moan. "I'll look after your son well," I tell him. "Just let me have him."

He doesn't reply but thrusts again. "Four." He holds his cock there, and my body is shaking, trembling on the end of it. He is clearly having problems keeping it in. "Okay, here it comes."

"Five," I cry triumphantly as he slams into me one last life-creating time. "Oh daddy, oh daddy, oh daddy," I repeat like a mantra.

I don't cum. I still feel elated.

He fills me even more with another three thrusts and draws to a stop.

He pulls out, stands up and turns around all in one movement, meaning I still don't get a proper look at his cock. He reaches into a drawer and pulls out the same roll of kitchen towel I used before -- a quick wipe and his trousers are back up again. He throws the paper down to me.

"Get cleaned up and then get your psycho-bitch arse out of here," he barks at me. "And don't ever darken my door again."

I look at him, dumbfounded.

"Oh, and by the way, I had a vasectomy years ago. Two kids are enough for me, and there's no way I'd risk knocking up a wacko like you. You'll have to find some other poor sucker to knock your sorry arse up. Now, go, if I ever see you or your skanky cunt here again, there will be trouble."

That seems to break something inside of me. All the pent-up emotions suddenly come out.

Except they come out as laughter. I'm so ridiculous. I'm a fool and a slut and, yes, he's definitely right, in need of some serious therapy. The idea that he might have had the snip is obvious in retrospect, but had never even occurred to me until he said it just now. No wonder he had little fear about fucking his houseguest raw the first time.

I find myself lying on the kitchen lino filled with what I now know is the worthless spunk of a man who hates me, and I feel so fucking alive and so fucking unlike myself that it's liberating. I don't get up, I just crack up.

He looks down at me on the floor, not sure what the hell is going on. "I'm going, I'm going," I tell him, but find myself doubling over again from amusement. He offers a hand and pulls me up, firmly but not roughly. He again offers me the kitchen towel, but I refuse, pulling my knickers back up over my sodden pussy.

I end up walking back to my new home. It's a lovely day. The birds are singing and, for once in England, the sun is actually out. When I get back, I find my host mother is out at bridge for the afternoon. I think about having a shower. I definitely need one with the afternoon I've had. I realize, though, that once I do that, this thing, whatever it is, will be over.

Instead, I go and lie in my bed, masturbating over my panties which are now firmly pasted to my pubic hair with semen. I think about that big black cock going in and out of me.

I've gone crazy, and, as of now, I'm giving myself permission to go crazy for the first time ever in my life.

I pick up my phone and send a message to Jack, my quickly abandoned squeeze. Hey, are you there? Sorry for blowing you off the other day.

A message comes back quickly. Sure. No problem. What's up?

I'm horny, I type. It's the first time I've ever talked frankly about having sexual needs with a man.

There's a very long pause for how short the reply is. Really?

Do you want to come over and eat my pussy?

This time the reply is very quick. Yes, sure. Be delighted to. and then some rather redundant emojis on the end of the message.

To be clear, I'm not going to be reciprocating in any way. I type.

He sends me a sad face, but then follows it withI can live with that.

The thing is, I still don't fancy that shower. Permission to be crazy, I remind myself.

One last thing... I type.

My knickers pull at my hair as I peel them off and down to my knees. I stick the camera between my legs and take the best picture I can. It's out of focus and not centred right, but it's enough to get the idea. This is my pussy right now, It's unmistakably used.

The message comes back. Oh, okay... There are no emojis on the end of this one. Regardless, I can't really back down now.

It is okay. I reply, I'm okay with it, and you are going to be okay with it as well. Either you want a good time or you don't. What's it to be?

There's another pause which is longer than it should be. I'm on my way. Ten minutes.

Good boy, I type.

It takes Jack a lot longer than ten minutes to get to me. Actually, that's kind of my fault. I hadn't told him about my recent move. Which worked out rather well, since it meant that he got to meet Dan, albeit briefly, before he ate the man's cum from out of me.

And that's the story of my first bull, my first cuck and how I started to come to terms with my fetish for being bred. I've a lot more to share with the Asian Queens Network including the time when I got two precious lines on my pregnancy test, but you only asked for the first time this time. I'll write in with more stories soon.

Love to all my Queens out there,

Lucy.